


Made With Love

by yerbamansa



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, M/M, Nesting, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-08-28 08:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16719972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yerbamansa/pseuds/yerbamansa
Summary: Finally living together in an apartment with an actual kitchen, Patrick makes the case to David that they  can cook at home instead of eating every meal at the cafe.





	1. First Meal

**Author's Note:**

> I love cooking and it’s headcanon for me that Patrick can cook but hasn’t had much opportunity thus far in Schitt’s Creek. To me, making food for someone is an act of love and care, and I really wanted to dig into that with these two. Uh, also, turns out? Cooking is rife with double entendre, if you’re keen to read into that.
> 
> Caveat for all recipe links: I haven’t made any of the recipes in this, because I don’t eat...well, a lot of the ingredients, and it’d be a hell of a stretch to write these characters as vegan just to suit my own cooking style. But personal dietary preferences aside, I tried to pick stuff that made sense and sounded good.
> 
> Note for chapter 1: It might seem a little fussy to use gloves, but (a) I do this with things I am far less squeamish about than raw meat and (b) these two are kinda extra fastidious types.

Between the two of them, they didn’t have a lot of kitchen gear to start out. David, of course, had nothing; Patrick had a few things in storage, but he had gotten rid of a lot of stuff when he moved. Who knew when he’d need that rice cooker again, anyway? And it wasn’t a particularly nice one to begin with.

What that meant was they got to pick out new stuff. And by “they,” David dominated decisions around plates and bowls and cups and cutlery. He had opinions on the aesthetic qualities of any appliance or piece of cookware that might be left out. Even the dish rack and soap dispenser needed to be carefully considered.

Patrick had learned some key rules by that point, though, so he managed to find key equipment that was a suitable compromise between form and function. And he won the argument over how to _organize_ the kitchen (“If it’s in a drawer, what does it matter how it looks?” “Oh my _god_ ”).

So when it came time to actually use their freshly-equipped kitchen, Patrick felt a little pressure to prove the effort was worthwhile. He spent a few scattered hours browsing recipe sites on his phone for inspiration before landing on a [North African-inspired one-pot meatball dish](https://food52.com/recipes/26386-lamb-meatballs-with-yogurt-eggs-and-mint). It would make use of two shiny new purchases they actually agreed on: a jet-black dutch oven, and a sleek metal-and-glass blender. And he hoped it would be just exotic enough to impress his worldly boyfriend.

Luckily, he could obtain most of the key ingredients from the store’s vendors—even the big supermarket in Elmdale wasn’t known for its wide selection of quality offerings—including some freshly-ground lamb for the meatballs. Handy, since “meat grinder” wasn’t high on Patrick’s list of kitchen necessities. At least not yet.

Patrick had already done his mise-en-place and was working on the meatballs by the time David got home from closing the store. “To be honest, when you said you’d cook dinner tonight, I was not picturing it like this,” David said at the sight of his boyfriend wrist-deep in raw meat, eyebrows fully arched. “I feel like I should make some kind of sex joke.”

This made Patrick laugh, and David continued. “I just hope we’ve got _really_ good soap to wash up with. I don’t think the artisanal stuff is going to cut it.”

Patrick held up a hand. “Gloves, David.”

“ _Ohh_ ,” David nodded approvingly. “So what are you making, exactly? It smells...interesting.”

“Why, did you want to help?”

“Oh, no. Can you imagine me, in the kitchen? I mean, I have been. _Never_ again.”

“So you’re just going to watch, then.”

David’s lips twisted into a sideways smile as he sauntered over to the high counter across from where Patrick was working on the meat. “What else am I gonna do? Watch the game in my mancave?” The way he said “mancave” was so derisive, it made Patrick go “hah!”

“As much as I’d love to entertain the fantasy of you in a sports jersey, screaming at your team when they miss a point, I’m kind of busy right now.”

David smirked and walked around the counter to kiss Patrick, who found it required concentration to remember to leave his hands where they were. “I think I’ve mixed this enough,” Patrick said, a little breathless. “Actually, there is something you can do for me.” He pulled away and held up two gloved hands with meat bits all over them. “Put a little olive oil in that pot and turn the heat on high?”

The look of confusion David flashed didn’t surprise Patrick. “That pot? What olive oil?”

Patrick handed him a tiny dish with a tablespoon of olive oil measured out.

“ _Oh_ , OK.” David took the dish and daintily stepped it over to the stove, took the lid off the brand-new dutch oven, and gave Patrick a look that said “in here?” and waited for approval before pouring the oil in. “And what is ‘high’? This just has numbers. I assume higher numbers are high. Like between 8 and 10?”

“You got it,” Patrick smiled, rolling a small meatball to test. David turned the dial up and made a quick exit from the kitchen, taking a counter stool from which to monitor his boyfriend preparing their meal. “Not so fast, I need your help to test this. It’ll be quick. I promise.” Patrick tossed the tiny meatball in the now-sizzling pot and motioned to a pair of tongs in the utensil jar. “When I tell you, use those to turn it. Just a couple times. Then take it out and we’ll taste it.”

David’s face looked skeptical, like “I think we should host an open mic night” skeptical, but Patrick knew that was at least 50% facade. “OK, so I thought _you_ were cooking us dinner.”

“I am, I am, I just don’t want to take off these gloves before I’m done working with the meat.”

David’s lips pursed as he suppressed a laugh. “OK. Sure.” He picked up the tongs and poked at the sizzling piece of meat. Patrick watched closely. “Turn it now.” David pinched it and set it on an uncooked side. “Perfect.” A couple turns later, Patrick was satisfied, and David pulled it out of the pan and took a bite before popping the other half in Patrick’s mouth.

“I would’ve used a knife, but...” Patrick objected, chewing.

“And I’d suggest chewing with your mouth closed, but you didn’t ask.”

“I think this needs more salt.” Patrick bit the inside of his cheek. Luckily he’d left out a little salt just in case.

“Is it safe for me to leave the kitchen yet?” David asked. “I prefer to observe from a distance.”

Patrick smiled. “Sure, sure,” he said softly, expertly rolling a golf ball-sized meatball between his hands. “So, did anything happen today I didn’t already hear about?”

“Oh, my _god_ , yes, I got a text from Alexis that...” Patrick zoned out a little listening to David recount the latest Rose family drama. Doing a repetitive task with his hands was relaxing but required some focus. He made placed the last meatball on a dish and started taking off his gloves when David finished. “—can you _imagine_?” He could not.

Patrick checked the pot on the stove—still good and hot, but he added a drizzle of extra oil just in case before carefully placing half the batch of meatballs inside. “These have to cook for a bit.” He grabbed the tongs and walked back to the counter where he had the recipe up on a tablet, double-checking that he’d prepped all the components. He had. That was satisfying.

David had gotten distracted by his phone. “Do you want some music? Beyonce or Avril?”

“Let me see that.” Patrick grabbed David’s phone and scrolled through the music library before landing on a cache of ‘90s power ballads. He tapped shuffle and let it play before handing the phone back. “Cook picks the music, David.” With that, he turned back to the pot of meatballs, which needed turning.

It took about half an hour to cook the entire batch, and while the power ballads playlist showed no signs of stopping, David’s patience was waning. “Are we _ever_ going to eat?” he whined.

“Shush, you.” Patrick poured some of the cooking fat into a jar and, with dramatic flourish, cast small bowls of well-minced onion and thinly sliced garlic into the pot. They sputtered and began to release their aroma. Patrick grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred. There was another half hour on this recipe, though. He probably should’ve thought about that. “We do have wine. And bread.”

David helped himself to both while Patrick added the next set of ingredients. The smell in the kitchen was spicy and warm and inviting, and it made them both even more hungry. After a torturously long 10 minutes, Patrick got out the blender and pureed half the sauce.

“I didn’t know you could use that for anything besides smoothies,” David snarked.

“Oh, that’s what I’ve been working on this whole time. Meat smoothies.” Patrick poured the sauce back into the pot, followed by the meatballs, and placed the lid on top.

“ _Mmmm_ , delicious.”

“That’s the idea. OK, so, we’ve got, oh, half an hour? And I am _feeling_ this playlist.”

“Oh? I guess we’ll just have to find something to do...”

25 minutes later, Patrick raced into the kitchen at the sound of the timer going off. His shirt was unbuttoned a few more buttons than usual. He lifted the lid and let the steam hit his face. It smelled delicious.

“Is it done yet?” David called from the sofa.

“Almost. Just need to add a few more things.” Patrick focused on the task at hand, gently placing dollops of yogurt in the pot, then cracking a few eggs in. He let them cook for a minute (David wasn’t into _super_ runny yolks; something about an incident in middle school his mother called “bullying” but David refused to label as such) before tearing some fresh mint and cilantro over the top. “You wanna set the table?”

“Finally, something in my wheelhouse. Oooh, that smells good.” David opened the cupboard and pulled out two plates: handmade ceramic from a local artisan, of course, in a minimalist design with muted colors. They weren’t cheap, but David had insisted (“It’s for the store, so it’s a write-off,” he’d wrongly argued). “Is this a fork thing, or spoon, or…?”

“Go full place setting, David. Let’s break it all in.”

“Right.” He pulled utensils and napkins out of the drawer and set the table, then retrieved the wine glasses and lit a candle.

“I’m gonna bring the pot over; can you get the trivet and the rest of the bread?” (He knew David knew what a trivet was because they’d had an _uncomfortably_ long debate about whether they needed one and, if so, what it should look like to match their décor.) The cast iron, full of meatballs and sauce, was heavy in Patrick’s hands as he carried it to the table. Finally, dinner was served.

Patrick spooned meatballs and sauce onto each of their plates, making sure to get a little of everything. David watched with a smile spread across his face, a little awed. Impressed, even. But hungry. He raised his glass. “A toast to the chef!”

“A toast to the kitchen helper,” Patrick replied, lifting his own glass.

“Is that all I am to you?”

“Of course not, but you _are_ a _very good_ kitchen helper.” David raised an eyebrow. They clinked glasses and sipped, then tucked into the food.

“Fuck, Patrick, this is delicious. I can’t believe you made this.”

“I can’t believe you _helped_.”

“Shut up. Next time, though, maybe something that takes less time to cook, though, you think?”

“You’re assuming there’s going to be a next time,” Patrick teased.

“I know you love it. And I love you. Especially if you keep cooking food this good.”

Patrick smiled. Even if the meal wasn’t the best, he’d succeeded. “I think this needs another toast. To the first meal of many.”

“Cheers to that.”


	2. Show Me (Or Don't, I Don't Care)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David grudgingly lets Patrick teach him how to cook.

In the weeks since they’d moved in together, Patrick cooked dinner several nights a week. Many of those nights, he managed to sneak in a few “lessons” for David. He could be trusted to stir a sauce or drain pasta or even start rice, provided Patrick reminded him how to measure it.

One Sunday he even showed him how to cook bacon in the oven for BLTs. David couldn’t quite hide how pleased he was with the result, considering how easy it was. A sandwich, he could do.

But convincing David to cook a WHOLE meal with him? It was a big ask.

“ _Fine_. As long as it’s not enchiladas, I’ll try. For you.” David rubbed Patrick’s shoulders anxiously.

He never wanted to learn how to cook. He’d never needed to, either. But his pragmatic boyfriend had proven more than adequate in the kitchen, and it was a genuine delight to come home and see him in the kitchen. He made it look easy, and the results were...better than Cafe Tropical, to say the least.

But as much as Patrick enjoyed cooking for David, he hoped it would be more fun to cook _with_ him. And practical, but that wasn’t a selling point, really.

“At least you already know how to fold in the cheese.”

David seethed at Patrick’s joke. “You think it’s cute, don’t you. I’ll have you know it took several attempts to get the sauce stains off the sleeves of my angora sweater.”

Patrick knew the sweater. He thought of the extra-long sleeves and long, fuzzy hairs accidentally dipped in enchilada sauce and cringed. “Yeah, I’m gonna say you should pick your shirt more carefully. Because it’s happening.”

“And I can’t get out of this by promising to do the dishes when you cook?”

“David, what are the chances you’d actually _do_ the dishes?”

“Fair point. I’m not even gonna try to argue you on that one. So what exactly did you have in mind?”

“You’re going to roast a chicken.”

“Ew. A whole chicken?”

“You can handle it. Check your phone.” Patrick texted David a link to a [_Bon Appétit_ video](https://video.bonappetit.com/watch/no-fail-roast-chicken-with-lemon-and-garlic). He figured having a reference would give David a little extra confidence.

“Oh, my god.” David’s eyebrows crept up his forehead as he watched in horror. “Oh, my _god_.”

“Not that bad, right?”

“No. That bad.”

Patrick was fully mocking him by now. “Oh, really? Which part?”

“First of all, the whole _raw chicken_. And the patting it down? And then _cutting it a little_? And I don’t know how to use a big knife like that? And there are so many _crevices_ … Oh, my _god_.”

“David,” Patrick said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I promise you can do it. I will help you.”

“I feel like I’m being hazed.”

Patrick laughed. “No, no hazing. But c’mon, let’s get cracking. I, for one, am getting hungry.”

David was tasked with getting the following items out: a cutting board, the chef’s knife, cast iron skillet (“ooh, it’s heavy”), a lemon, a head of garlic (“why is it called a head?”), butter, and the locally-sourced chicken Patrick picked up.

“So, first, I need to show you how to hold the knife.”

“Oh, so _very_ basic, then.”

“I just don’t want to watch you hurt yourself. The hospital is all the way in Elmdale; you’d get blood all over the car. So, you want to get a good grip on it from the top, like this”—he stood behind David and helped him get the right hold—“and when you slice something on the board, you want to use the natural curve of the blade and rock it, from near the tip to the part near your hand.” He held David’s hand holding the knife and made a few motions to demonstrate.

“This would be almost sexy if I weren’t holding a big piece of sharp steel,” David whispered.

“That’ll come later,” Patrick whispered back. “So, let’s try it with the lemon first. Hold it carefully with your other hand, but keep your fingers away from the blade.” Patrick removed his hand from David’s and let him get to work. David hesitantly placed the middle of the knife over the lemon and pushed through it, leaving two slightly uneven halves. “Perfect.”

“ _Right_.”

“OK, next, you’re going to slice the head of garlic open.”

“That sounds violent.”

“You’re the one with the big knife.”

“Again, I don’t think that’s as sexy as you seem to think it is.”

Patrick was chuckling. “The garlic, David. Chop, chop.”

“So like, the same as the lemon, I guess?” He cut into the bulb revealing a matrix of differently-shaped cloves. “Ew.”

Patrick remembered the oven needed preheating and stepped to the other side of the kitchen for a moment. “Next, you need to melt the butter.”

“What, like, with my hands?” Now there was an image.

“No, take a stick out of the box, cut it in half—through the paper—then unwrap it, put it in a dish, and microwave it for a minute. Then put on some gloves, ‘cause it’s chicken time.”

David complied, but shot Patrick a hell of a look. “Your glee is deeply disturbing.”

Patrick brought the melted butter back to the prep area and set it aside with the lemon and garlic. “OK, so we’re going to pat this chicken dry with paper towels. I don’t think I’ve ever actually done this step, but I wouldn’t want my ignorance to be the reason you fail.”

“Oh, and this will be _my_ failure, will it?”

“Definitely. Definitely. If we eat raw chicken tonight, it’s all your fault.”

“I’m going to remember you said that next time you try to get me to cook.”

“Just towel off the chicken, David.”

His brow furrowed, David gingerly gave the bird a thorough pat dry. “I’m not sure if this is the _weirdest_ thing I’ve been asked to do by someone I’m dating, but it’s up there.”

Patrick pulled up the recipe page on his tablet and set it on the counter behind the cutting board. “So now you’re going to slice through the skin connecting the legs to the body, like in the video.”

“Seriously, this is disgusting.”

“Well, it’s how we get to dinner.”

“It’s how _you_ get to dinner.”

“That looks pretty good!” Patrick said, inspecting David’s reluctant knifework.

“And now… salt and pepper. I remember because the image of disembodied hands sprinkling powders into a gaping body crevice is seared into my brain.” David gritted his teeth dramatically to demonstrate his horror. “I just pinch it out of these little bowls?” He’d seen Patrick do it before. He managed it, though with less finesse. Patrick repressed a bad “salt bae” joke.

“Perfect. Now it all goes in the pan.” He scrolled the recipe down so David could follow without needing verbal instruction. Chicken first, then lemon and garlic, then butter. “And I think you can take the gloves off now.”

“Do I get to do the so-called honors?” Patrick swept his arm with flourish and bowed his head. “ _OK._ ” David opened the oven and slide the heavy pan inside.

“And now we wait. 45 minutes.” Patrick set a timer.

“ _Fuck_. Cooking takes so much _time_.”

“Well, you could help me make a salad. You could use more practice with the knife.” Speaking of which, it needed a good wash now, which Patrick took care of right away.

“I think severing the limbs of a dead animal was enough kitchen exposure for me for one day, _thanks_.”

“Sure, well, we don’t need to get started now. It won’t take 45 minutes to make a salad.”

“Thank you for not saying ‘toss.’”

The look on Patrick’s face was a mix of amused and intrigued. He stared at David.

“OK, I didn’t need to say it either. Anyway, your point is, we have time? To be in _other_ rooms?”

Patrick stepped over and put his arms around David, who was still winding down from a full-body cringe (over the chicken? Or the knife? Or the salad? All three?). “I just want to take a moment and recognize how great it is to have other rooms to go to with you.”

David’s whole body relaxed and he smiled, leaning in to the moment. “Well. I agree, it’s not a terrible situation, on the whole.” He took Patrick’s hand and led him out of the kitchen. “To which of our many rooms should we retire to whilst our dinner hopefully cooks?”

“To the solarium, perhaps? Or the library?”

“How lovely, indeed, but that wing has been closed, recall, for renovation.”

“Oh, how unfortunate. We’ll have to make do with the den.” Patrick leaned in to kiss David.

“I guess we will,” David said, returning the kiss.

* * *

Patrick caught a glimpse at the timer from across the room and sat upright suddenly. “Um, David, I think we need to get back in the kitchen.”

“Do we, though?” David said, undeterred.

Patrick looked him in the eyes. “Bringing the kitchen in here isn’t technically possible, so yeah.”

David pouted. “Fine. What did you need me to do again?”

“You’re going to help me make a salad and check on the chicken.”

David really didn’t care, but getting bossed around by his boyfriend wasn’t all bad. And the chicken did smell really good. Patrick was already busying himself making a salad dressing from scratch. _Of course_.

“I want you to work on those knife skills.”

“ _What_ knife skills?”

“Exactly.”

“I feel like I’m being entrapped. Into cooking.” Like if he knew how, he’d be on the hook.

“ _Exactly_.”

David sighed. The timer showed about 10 minutes left on the chicken. “Fine. What am I, where do I...”

Patrick set a tomato, an onion, a carrot, and a cucumber next to the cutting board. “I’m going to teach you how to cut these up.” David looked at him with deep skepticism.

“Is it _safe_?”

“Yes, David. Look at me. You can do this.”

“I wasn’t asking for a pep talk, but fine.”

“I know. You were looking for an out. And I’m not giving you one.” David scrunched his whole face up. “OK, so, first, I’m gonna do half the onion, then you’ll do the other half. So we slice it in half like this...” Patrick demonstrated how to peel an onion and set it cut-side down for stability, then rocked the knife through it in a wave-like motion to transform it into dozens of perfect, thin half-moons. “Think you can do that?”

“Uh… uh huh.” David tried to repeat Patrick’s technique. Patrick corrected him on the way he held the knife at first, and he worked very slowly, but they came out reasonably well. Not perfectly thin, but David was nothing if not detail-oriented. They moved on to the other vegetables—tomatoes in wedges; cucumber sliced on the bias; carrots in thin coins—and David had to admit to himself that this wasn’t the worst activity.

“I think you might actually enjoy that,” Patrick teased.

“ _Nope_. I’m just _hungry_.”

“Yeah, speaking of, time to check the chicken.”

“’K.” David looked around the room. “How do I do that…?”

Patrick held up the tablet and handed him a potholder. He took the pan out of the oven—still heavy, but now also hot; he made sure Patrick was aware of the physical effort. “Where’s the tiny knife?”

“It’s called a paring knife,” Patrick said as he handed it to David.

David leaned over the sizzling, golden bird and prodded it with the tip of the knife, as seen on the Internet. “It’s...not pink...and the juice looks clear?”

Patrick leaned over to check David’s assessment. “Yup, looks good.”

“So now we get to eat, right?”

“Nope. It’s got to rest for 15 minutes before we can cut it. Or eat it without burning our mouths.”

“Yup. OK. I do need my mouth.”

Patrick smirked.

“That came out wrong.”

“I disagree.”

“So are we just going to spend the next 15 minutes attacking me for one unfortunate phrasing choice, or...”

“Well, we can set the table and finish the salad.” Damn Patrick’s practical nature. They got back to work and at last it was time to eat. “Do you want to do the honors?” Patrick offered David a knife.

“I don’t-- I don’t know what to do with that, and I’m too stressed from hunger to learn now.” He stuck his lip out in a pout.

Patrick considered that David had actually done everything else he’d been asked to do, and done a reasonably good job at it, despite his whining. He could relent now. “All right, all right. What part do you want?”

“Mmmm, thigh.”

“Coming right up.” Patrick carved up the bird with ease. “Could you get me some salad?”

They served each other dinner, clinked beers, and dug in.

After a few bites, Patrick spoke. “Thank you, David. I know you only did this because I asked, but it was really nice to work with you in the kitchen. And the chicken is pretty good, too.”

“Mm, sure. I just hope you’re not expecting me to make a habit of it. This chicken better last us all week.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, but I do hope this isn’t a one-time thing, either.”

David took a bite of salad and chewed thoughtfully. “I _did_ do a devastatingly good job slicing this cucumber.”


	3. The Dinner Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes some coaxing, but Patrick convinces David to host a family dinner.

Ever since the Rose children moved out of the motel, they’d been under strict orders to appear at a weekly family dinner, ideally with partners in tow. Usually they met at the cafe, of course, but there had been a motel pizza night one particularly stressful week, and twice Ted hosted.

Not once had David offered.

It’s not that his family hadn’t been to their apartment—of course they’d helped them move (well, Johnny helped, as much as his bad back allowed), and Moira was prone to unscheduled drop-ins. But the prospect of hosting them for a semi-formal dinner, which he’d _almost certainly_ have to help Patrick prepare, filled him with dread.

Once, the Roses would’ve been absolutely impossible to please, but three years of diner food and backyard barbecue had shaved the edges off their snobbery. David, however, insisted on maintaining a high standard when it came to anything he put his stamp on, which definitely including hosting dinner with his family.

David thought he’d been keeping his anxiety to himself, and that no one would notice that he hadn’t invited his family over for dinner yet. He was wrong. At least, Patrick noticed, and when he asked about it, he was treated to a rant about what would be expected of such a dinner and its ambiance the likes of which he hadn’t heard since he first met David to fill out the paperwork for the store.

“It would have to be classy but unexpected. We’d need to be seasonal and local but globally influenced. There’s floral arrangements to consider, and I don’t know if we even have the right plates...”

“David. I think you might be making too big a deal over this.”

“It’s just… it’s the first time _we’re_ hosting anything like this. In _our_ home _._ ” Patrick smiled at that, and his smile calmed David just a smidge.

“I get that. I do. But it’s _only_ family dinner. When we eat at Ted’s, he microwaves, for god’s sake.”

“Sure. OK. But you _know_ my mother.”

“I do. And I know your mother will only be incredibly happy to eat dinner in her son’s home, and probably surprised to learn you can actually cook.”

“Oh, _fuck_ no.”

“Well, whatever we plan, I’m going to need your help in the kitchen.”

“Ugh.”

“Plus it’ll give me an excuse to try baking again.”

“Wait, what? You can bake? I like baked goods. You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Perhaps,” Patrick said sarcastically.

Over the next few days, the two visited the library and checked out a few big-name, glossy entertaining cookbooks for inspiration. David was never at a loss when it came to party decoration and theme, but this had his brain in knots. Fortunately, Patrick had become adept at patiently untangling those knots.

“I know you’re going to have _lots of thoughts_ , but I just want to suggest we keep it very simple. Maybe roast a chicken and some vegetables?” Patrick knew that would sound very pedestrian to David, but he wanted to attempt to ground what might be rather lofty ideas about what they could pull off. Or should even attempt. “If you think that’s not enough, we could make a nice soup.”

“A _nice soup_?”

“Yup.” He turned to a photo of a pureed butternut squash soup recipe, served with a swirl of cream and artful smattering of minced chives. “Like this?”

“Uh huh. Yeah. _Soup_.” David did not look in any way convinced. As expected.

“Well, where is your mind going? See anything in these books that doesn’t make you cringe?”

David sighed forcefully through his lips, making a frustrated “pbbbttt” noise. “Kind of?” He had his finger marking a particular page in the book he was perusing.”

“So, show me.”

“There’s this Provençal spread that reminds me a family trip to the south of France the year after I graduated high school. Could do tuna steaks and salade Niçoise with a mussel appetizer. Or...”

“I see, I see. That all sounds _lovely_ , but do you have any idea what that much fresh seafood will cost? We’re hundreds of miles from the ocean.”

“I’m sure Colleen would cut us a deal.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

“ _Fine_.”

“Do you maybe have any other travel memories from somewhere a little more… _inland_?”

“What does geography have to do with anything?”

“David, I’m trying to work with you here. I like your idea of making something that reminds you of your travels—which, honestly, I’m _kind of_ jealous of—I just don’t want to spend more than our rent to get the ingredients.”

“You’re kind of jealous of my travels?” David’s sideways smile emerged.

“Well, yeah, sure. You’ve seen my passport. Not much to it.”

“I didn’t know you _wanted_ to travel, though.”

“Of course I do. Just, you know, money, and Rachel.”

David squeezed his eyes shut for a split second. “Oh.”

“Sorry to bring it up.”

“It’s OK. It’s OK. It’s the past.” David tried to reassure Patrick that he was over it by pulling him into a kiss. “And we’ve got plenty of time to make up for it.”

“That sounds like the hint of a promise. Where would you take me first?”

“Mmmm. I’ve actually thought about this. Our first stop would be Japan.”

“Japan? I’ve heard they have amazing baseball there.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. But if it’d make you happy...”

Patrick opened his mouth in mock astonishment. “Oh, David, that’s so generous of you.”

“ _Right_.”

Patrick was quiet for a moment. “You know where I always wanted to go?”

“Where?”

“Greece.”

David brightened. “I can see that. You’d befriend every old fisherman.”

Patrick chuckled. He thought about photos he’d seen of endless blue waters set against perfectly white ancient villages, of the food he’d tasted that had been called “Greek,” of romantic notions about sailing from island to island at sunset. He figured David might laugh at that, but he wanted to share it with him all the same. “Sure, sure. And do some sightseeing, you know. The Acropolis and whatnot.”

“Mm, dare to dream.”

“You’ve been, right?”

“Once, I think? As a kid.”

“Not worth a return trip?”

“It’s not that. It just… it wasn’t who I _was_.” He had a sober expression when he met Patrick’s eyes. “I would love to go there. With you.”

The two sat with that for a minute: Making plans. For the future. For _a_ future.

David broke the silence. “Anyway. We should probably just pick something and get on with it.”

“David, you’re the one--”

“I swear to god, if you say what I think you’re going to say, the whole thing is _off_.”

“OK, well, how about Greek food?”

“Do you know _anything_ about making Greek food?”

“Nope, but that’s never stopped me before.”

“Holy shit. This _whole time_ , you’re just making it up as you go?”

“I wouldn’t go that far; that’s why recipes exist. But basically.”

“I don’t know why I just thought you must have tried all this stuff before. Like that time you made a Thai curry…?”

“Never been to Thailand, but there was a decent Thai place in my hometown.”

“So, what, you hung out at a Greek restaurant in college?”

“More like a diner, but yeah.”

“A _diner_.”

“Look, I’m not vouching for authenticity, here, but it was damn good food.” David’s brows furrowed with skepticism and Patrick knew he was on the verge of losing this. “It’s a compromise. I can make a plan, and you get three tweaks. Within reason. And then we do it, and then it’s done.”

“’We’ll do it, and then it’s done’?”

“Yep. We’ll have hosted dinner. So maybe it won’t be so hard next time.”

David seemed anxious about this plan, but relieved to not have to _make_ the plan. Somehow all that showed on his face.

* * *

Patrick really had been meaning to get back into baking, and planning a Greek-inspired dinner wasn’t a bad time to practice making [pita bread](https://philosokitchen.com/greek-pita-bread-recipe-easy-tasty/). The grocery store in Elmdale was the only place he’d even seen pita around here, and they were a dry, tasteless pocket-style affair suitable only for sad packed lunches. He hadn’t made a lot of yeasted doughs, but he was confident he could figure it out with practice.

How hard could it be? Certainly not as hard as asking out your business partner.

He decided to dedicate one morning to the project, getting up before David. A day David could open the store. The dough came together easily and quickly, and he’d forgotten how therapeutic the process of kneading could be: punching and pushing around something soft and warm, smelling of yeast, until it turns smooth and elastic under the pressure of your hands is really something.

The ball of dough was resting under a towel by the time David got up.

“What’s that smell?”

“Oh, umm, dough. Bread dough.”

“Oooh.”

“Yeah, I, uh, wanted to try to make pita bread. For our dinner.”

“ _Oh_.”

“And, uh, I haven’t really made bread much, so I needed to practice.”

“I mean, it smells amazing. Do I get to be your taste tester?”

“I can’t eat 16 pitas by myself.”

“How long is _that_ going to take?”

“Oohh, well, a couple hours of mostly waiting around, followed by however long it takes me to roll out each individual bread and cook it one at a time.”

“That seems like a lot.”

“Yeah...”

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Patrick got shy all of a sudden and looked at the floor. Could he admit it was at least 50% because he wanted to impress his not-in-laws? No, that’s ridiculous; that wasn’t the kind of thing that impresses them. But it was _cute_ , he supposed. That might be worse. “I don’t know, David. I never really had the time or space to do this kind of thing before, and now that I do…” Patrick looked up to meet David’s eyes again.

“Well, whatever the reason, it’s very impressive. Any experiment that ends with me shoving hot bread in my mouth is worthwhile.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

David almost giggled. “Shut up.”

By the time the dough was proved, divided up, and proved again, Patrick had to shoo David out of the kitchen.

“You’re right. It’s almost 10. Surely customers will be waiting.”

“Oh, yes, the hordes of consumers are holding their faces to the glass and screaming ‘let me in!’ as we speak!”

“Can you imagine? There’s not enough window cleaner in the world. I’ll see you for lunch?” And with that, David left, and Patrick could focus on rolling out the flatbreads and baking them in a skillet.

The shapes didn’t come out perfectly round, and it took a few tries (and at least one definitely burnt pita) to get the heat right, but for the most part, they looked very close to the bubbly, brown, pillowy pitas of his college Greek diner dreams. He packed up some leftovers along with several of his best attempts and went to join David at the store.

* * *

“I get the feeling we’re in for a real treat tonight, John,” Moira said as they stood outside David and Patrick’s apartment. “There’s something up with those two.”

“I’m just looking forward to a home-cooked meal. I assume Patrick cooked, anyway.”

“Our son has found himself quite the capable suitor.” Moira rang the bell and David opened it almost immediately.

“You’re here. Patrick, they’re here! May I take your coats?”

“Wow, it smells good in here, son!” Johnny stepped inside and nodded hello to Patrick in the kitchen. “Looks like you’ve been cooking up a storm!”

“David helped!” Patrick called out cheerfully, which made David scowl and his parents beam.

“How about drinks? Can I get you drinks?” David asked through gritted teeth, already pouring himself a glass. “We’re still waiting on Alexis--” A knock interrupted him. “That must be them.” He opened the door.

“Heyyyy!” came Alexis’s distinctive greeting. Sensing her brother’s nerves, she tried to calm him as they stepped inside. “Breathe it out, David. Breathe it out. Mom and dad are already here? Oh, hi.”

Their guests busy greeting each other, David snuck back to the kitchen. “You good in here?”

“Ah, yeah, but maybe you should do [your appetizer](http://www.mygreekdish.com/recipe/feta-bouyiourdi-spicy-baked-feta-peppers-onions-and-tomatoes/).”

“Oh, my god, why did I ever agree to this.”

“Because I said you had to, and you picked the easiest recipe we could find?”

“Right. OK. Where is the...”

“I set it all out for you,” Patrick motioned to the cutting board. “And while you do that, I’m going to go greet our guests.”

“Ugghh,” David objected, but got to work unwrapping a block of feta and placing it on a piece of foil. Then he chopped up a tomato, pepper, and onion.

“Um, Patrick, I don’t mean to alarm you, but is it OK that David’s using a _knife_?” Alexis asked quietly. “Because one time, he tried to help Angelina, our cook, like, make a pie, or something, and he stabbed himself in the elbow.”

“Oh, I remember that,” Johnny chimed in. “What did he need, like, eight stitches?”

“It was 10, and in my defense, there was a lot of butter,” David snarled.

“I’m really glad I didn’t hear this story before I let you use my knife,” Patrick chuckled. “No, Alexis, Mr. Rose, I promise, he’s got this.”

“Your confidence in our David is laudable,” Moira asserted.

“Great. Uh, so, shall we settle in at the table? Does everyone have a drink?” Patrick moved swiftly into host mode, pulling out a chair for Moira.

Meanwhile, David tossed the chopped vegetables over the feta, drizzled olive oil, and scattered salt and pepper, then popped it in the oven. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction— _he made a thing! It probably won’t be terrible!_ —before putting back on a cynical visage.

Patrick came back to the kitchen to retrieve another bottle of wine. “Doing OK in here?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“You want to bring out the olives and stuff? And bread?”

David put his arms around Patrick, whose hands were full with the wine bottle and corkscrew. “I got this.”

“Oh, you do?” Patrick kissed him. (Alexis was the only one who saw, and she reacted with a very pouty -faced “awww!” that David stared her down for.)

“ _Yes._ Now get back out there. _You_ deal with my family. Get them _very_ drunk so they’re properly impressed by my cooking.” Patrick snickered and left with the wine.

David pulled a set of small serving bowls out of the cupboard—they were unique and handmade by one of the store’s artisans, of course; Patrick had thought they were too expensive and that they’d never use them, but David won that argument—and carefully arranged olives in one and pickled artichoke hearts in another. He carefully sliced a baguette and wrapped it in a tea towel to serve. Finally, the timer went off, and he took the cheese out of the oven and slid it onto a serving dish. He fit everything on a tray and carried it over to the table. “All right, we’ve got appetizers.”

“You wanna tell them about it, David?” Patrick prompted.

“ _No_. But fine.” David settled in and pointed out the dishes. “There’s olives and artichoke hearts, which are from some of our vendors, of course. This dish is called feta bouyiourdi, and it’s basically a hunk of cheese with stuff on it, and you eat it with the bread, I guess.”

“What a magniloquent account of the spread before us,” Moira smiled and let Johnny serve her a little of each.

“Mmm, David, I like the cheese! It’s very...salty,” Ted declared. There were sounds of agreement around the table.

Patrick smiled at David and David, finally shaking off his unease, smiled back. “Thank you. Don’t fill up on this, though, because Patrick is a way better cook than I am.”

“Speaking of which, I better get back in there,” Patrick replied, serving himself a little more of each item on the table. “I’ll just take a little of this to go.”

“Do you need any help in there?” David whispered.

“No, besides, someone needs to stay and be a good host for our guests, right?” Patrick kissed David on the forehead and walked away.

There wasn’t _too_ terribly much to do: he’d done most of the prep work in advance (with a little help from David), so everything just needed to finish up in the oven or get a final mix. David hadn’t fully understood the menu, but Patrick was sure it would go over well. His confidence was usually enough to sell it.

Into the oven went chicken souvlaki skewers, potato wedges, and a couple foil-wrapped packages of his homemade fluffy pita bread. Patrick turned next to his [Greek salad](https://www.thekitchn.com/how-to-make-the-best-diner-style-greek-salad-242647), which deserved a freshly-diced tomato but was otherwise ready to go in a salad bowl. He supposed David might’ve arranged it more artfully than he was inclined to, but he wasn’t going to interrupt him now—he appeared to be engaged in some kind of emotionally-heightened debate with his mother; about what, Patrick couldn’t quite hear. He was content to watch from the kitchen and enjoy the din of family dinner at _their_ home. The home he made with David.


	4. Color in Your Cheeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Patrick gets sick, David attempts to make him something healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title inspired by the Mountain Goats song of the same name (though hardly the same subject).

“I think I’m getting sick,” admitted Patrick after a morning of coughing fits and sniffling. David had been keeping a distance of at least six feet since he heard the first sneeze.

“ _Yeah_. I noticed.”

“I should probably go home. Do you think you can handle things here?” Patrick coughed into his arm.

David looked around anxiously. The store was empty. “Umm… yes. You need to get some… rest? Is that what I’m supposed to be saying?”

Patrick sighed. He wasn’t sure what to expect from David right now. The man spent a day wearing a shower cap in public to avoid catching his sister’s lice. What was he going to do when his boyfriend is sick in their bed? “Yeah. I’m just going to go crawl in bed.” He paused. “Sorry, I’ll try to minimize the contamination.” He fully expected that the next time he saw David, he’d be wearing gloves and a surgical mask.

“It’s OK,” David said in a high-pitched voice, attempting to project concern. “Just get some rest. I’ll be fine here.”

Walking home, Patrick wondered if they had enough tissues at home. Or tea. He pulled out his phone to text David.

 

> Hey, could you bring home some tea? Maybe some soup?

David didn’t respond until after Patrick arrived home and tucked himself in bed.

 

> i’m on it  
>  be home early

_Dammit. He doesn’t need to do that._ Patrick tried to get comfortable enough to sleep, but he was too congested. He opted for a podcast—David _hated_ listening to most podcasts, so he was really behind on his feed—and closed his eyes.

He was half asleep and almost caught up on Start Up when a text alert interrupted his listening.

 

> do you need medicine or anything  
>  i need to go to elmdale anyway

Patrick grabbed his phone and held it under the covers. The bedroom window caught too much afternoon sun and made it too bright to really rest.

 

> Sure, get me some nyquil or something

 

 

> k

He sighed and set the phone back on the bedside table. David was going to Elmdale? Relief would be a while away. He grabbed a handful of tissues and curled up again.

* * *

David spent the early afternoon googling cold remedies on his phone, to the exclusion of offering the kind of customer service Patrick expected. There weren’t too many customers, anyway, so he figured he could get away with closing early. He rang up a bag of herbal tea for himself—the label claimed it was perfect for cold and flu season, whatever that meant—and grabbed Patrick’s car keys before locking up.

After searching for cold remedies, he thought he’d look up soup recipes. _Chicken noodle soup is what you give to people with a cold, right? How hard could it be?_ A [recipe for miso soup](https://www.thekitchn.com/best-simple-supper-miso-soup-w-136147) caught his eye, but when he read it over, he realized there was no way he’d find seaweed at the supermarket in Elmdale, and the thought of poaching an egg scared him off completely.

He had a lot of time to think on the drive to Elmdale. This was the first time he’d had to deal with a partner being sick like this. OK, there was Verena, whose childhood leukemia returned at age 22 a week into their passionate fling, and he’d visited them in the hospital, but they called things off almost immediately after their mother arrived and started asking questions. So he didn’t fully know what to _do_.

First, he called Stevie, but she didn’t answer. He left a frantic voice mail suggesting their apartment was under quarantine so not to stop by unannounced, as if Stevie would ever. He considered calling his mother, but realized that would only make matters worse. Suddenly he wished he knew Patrick’s family well enough to call _them_ for advice. So he went with his last resort: Alexis.

“First of all, I’m _so_ glad you called me, I have nursed, like, so many people when they got sick. It can be _so_ cute.”

“What? _When?_ How? Wait, never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“What, David? There was that time everyone on the yacht got sick besides me, and...”

“I really don’t want details. Just tell me what to _do_.”

“Um, I don’t know. But, oh, here’s something: you remember when I got a cold and Mutt brought me all that stuff? Yeah, he had this oregano oil that was, like, so good.”

“Oregano oil? What the fuck is that?”

“I don’t _know_ , David, but I’m sure Gwyneth would approve. It’s very natural.”

“Right.”

Alexis was quiet for a minute, musing. “I think this is good for you.”

“What the fuck does that mean? My boyfriend contracted some kind of disgusting ailment, and it’s _good for me_?”

“You have someone to take care of. That’s very new.”

“We’ve been together almost _two years_.”

“You know what I mean.”

David sighed. “I guess. Anyway, I’m finally here. Gotta go.”

“’K.”

David looked over his list before getting out of the car. _Nyquil. VapoRub. Orange juice. Ginger ale. Hot water bottle. Face masks._ “Oregano oil,” he said to himself as he wrote it underneath that. He picked up his phone and pulled up the recipe for [chicken noodle soup](https://www.thekitchn.com/how-to-make-the-best-chicken-noodle-soup-cooking-lessons-from-the-kitchn-178790) he’d found earlier. He texted Patrick:

 

> do we have an onion celery carrots garlic chicken thighs chicken broth or noodles right now

 

 

> I don’t think you want me to check, but we should have onion and garlic already.  
>  You can’t possibly want me to cook right now

 

 

> thx nope

He updated his shopping list accordingly and went inside to complete his errand, thinking about what Alexis said. Not only did he have someone to take care of, he had someone who _needed_ him. Who he wanted to be needed by. That was a lot to chew on.

* * *

 _Why would David ask about ingredients?!_ Patrick was wide awake. Was David going to cook for him? That was so… unexpected and sweet and mildly terrifying. He didn’t have to contemplate long, because he heard keys jangling at the front door.

“Heyyy,” called out a familiar voice. “How are you feeling?”

Patrick coughed. “Oh, dandy.”

David appeared at the bedroom door with a mask and gloves—as predicted—and his hands full. “I got you the Nyquil you asked for, and some VapoRub, and… I don’t know, I grabbed some things at random.” His voice was slightly muffled from the mask; Patrick tried to laugh but coughed lightly instead. “Oh, and this is oregano oil. Gwyneth swears by it.”

“Well, if it’s good enough for Gwyneth,” Patrick rasped.

“I’m going to make you a pot of tea, but I also got orange juice and ginger ale if you want… that…” David set down the goods and began gesturing uselessly. “I don’t know. I think that’s what the nanny gave us when we were sick.”

Patrick wished he could take David’s hand. “Thank you, that’s very kind. The tea is fine for now.”

“OK. I’m gonna go do… things.”

Patrick started to ask him what _things_ , but got caught up in a sneeze instead. He turned away from David. “Could really use that tea.”

“Yup. I will be _right_ back.” David scurried out of the room.

In the kitchen, David turned on the kettle and measured the loose herbal tea into Patrick’s tea pot, then rummaged around in the cupboard for honey. While he waited for the water to boil, he started putting together the ingredients for soup, like he’d seen Patrick do so many times now; he set out the cutting board, knife, and little containers to put chopped ingredients, and placed the pot on the stove.

The kettle whistled and he poured it in the pot to steep. He spooned honey into Patrick’s favorite mug and carried it and the tea pot into the bedroom.

“This needs a few minutes,” he announced. “Can I get you anything else?”

Patrick shook his head. “Thank you, David.”

“It’s nothing.”

 _It’s not nothing_ , he thought, but David had already left. Patrick could hear him doing something in the kitchen. “What are you doing in there?”

David reappeared at the doorway, holding a mask over his mouth. “ _Nothing_. Drink your tea.” He disappeared again and turned on music to cover up whatever he was doing.

Patrick chuckled to himself. He sat up, turned a podcast on, poured a cup of tea, and sipped. Something was happening that surprised him. It warmed his heart as much as the tea warmed his throat.

David surprised himself, if he was honest: making soup wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be. Patrick had taught him well.

But Patrick was also the one who usually got out all the pantry ingredients, so David had no idea where to look for a bay leaf. He popped back into the bedroom door, mask on. “Um, where might I find a bay leaf?”

Patrick was still sipping his tea. He could barely smell the onions and garlic through his congestion, but the tea was helping. “It’ll be in the spice rack. The jar labeled ‘bay leaves.’”

“Right. Of course. And it’s really just… a leaf?”

Patrick nodded, amused. “I’m afraid to ask…”

“ _Don’t_. But, uh, is the music too loud? Is the tea OK?”

 _This is a shocking amount of thoughtfulness, David_ , he thought, but dared not say. Instead, he simply said, “Everything is fine. Thank you.”

“Cool. OK. Back to work.”

A while later, David was waiting for the chicken to cook when he got a text from Alexis.

 

> sooo how’s it going?

David rolled his eyes.

 

> fine  
>  surprised i found oregano oil in elmdale

 

 

> gwyneth is very influential  
>  how is patrick?

 

 

> so kind of you to ask  
>  i dunno, he’s sick  
>  i’m making soup

He imagined her smacking him in the arm for that. The best she could do in a text, however, was:

 

> DAVID!!!

That did not require a response, so David sat with his feelings for a bit instead. Who was he? Some guy who loved his boyfriend enough to make him chicken noodle soup when he’s sick, that’s who. More than saying “I love you,” more than moving in together, more than meeting the parents, that might be the biggest proof of his commitment to Patrick. Which made him start thinking about something that, despite his lifelong worship of romantic comedies, he never really thought about for himself—marriage.

 _Whoosh_. It was a big thought. He had to shake it off and attend to the chicken.

In his restless, mildly feverish state, Patrick found himself ruminating on similar thoughts. An outsider might’ve assumed he was pretty traditional when it came to marriage—after all, he’d been engaged before—but since coming to terms with his identity and being with David, he realized his feelings were more complex. The “first comes love, then comes marriage” model deserved interrogation. Did he want to be with David for… ever? Absolutely, if he’d have him. But the idea of marriage carried some baggage for him as a presumed outcome of long-term relationships. Marriage, kids; a normal life. None of that was guaranteed, of course, but with David, he could assume nothing.

Though they’d never talked about it, he worried that David would scoff at the whole notion. David, who scorned anniversaries and hated babies. David, of the sneering discomfort with everything family.

David, who was powering through the sickness in his bed with evident aplomb. He’d been paying attention. He’d been growing. Changing.

Patrick hoped he truly deserved him.

When David walked in carrying a bowl of soup, steaming and aromatic, he couldn’t help tearing up just a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey there, thanks for reading. You're awesome. Your kudos and comments are my medicine. If you want to follow me elsewhere, I'm on Tumblr @yerbamansa.


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